Oration on the Dignity of Man

(De hominis dignitate)

Giovanni Pico della Mirandola

To the best of our knowledge, the text of this
work is in the “Public Domain” in Australia.
HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may
still be under copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website.
It is your responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws
in your country before downloading this work.

eBooks@Adelaide
The University of Adelaide Library
University of Adelaide
South Australia 5005

Oration on the Dignity of Man

Most esteemed Fathers, I have read in the ancient writings of the Arabians that Abdala the Saracen on being asked
what, on this stage, so to say, of the world, seemed to him most evocative of wonder, replied that there was nothing to
be seen more marvelous than man. And that celebrated exclamation of Hermes Trismegistus, “What a great miracle is man,
Asclepius” confirms this opinion.

And still, as I reflected upon the basis assigned for these estimations, I was not fully persuaded by the diverse
reasons advanced for the preeminence of human nature; that man is the intermediary between creatures, that he is the
familiar of the gods above him as he is the lord of the beings beneath him; that, by the acuteness of his senses, the
inquiry of his reason and the light of his intelligence, he is the interpreter of nature, set midway between the
timeless unchanging and the flux of time; the living union (as the Persians say), the very marriage hymn of the world,
and, by David’s testimony but little lower than the angels. These reasons are all, without question, of great weight;
nevertheless, they do not touch the principal reasons, those, that is to say, which justify man’s unique right for such
unbounded admiration. Why, I asked, should we not admire the angels themselves and the beatific choirs more? At long
last, however, I feel that I have come to some understanding of why man is the most fortunate of living things and,
consequently, deserving of all admiration; of what may be the condition in the hierarchy of beings assigned to him,
which draws upon him the envy, not of the brutes alone, but of the astral beings and of the very intelligences which
dwell beyond the confines of the world. A thing surpassing belief and smiting the soul with wonder. Still, how could it
be otherwise? For it is on this ground that man is, with complete justice, considered and called a great miracle and a
being worthy of all admiration.

Hear then, oh Fathers, precisely what this condition of man is; and in the name of your humanity, grant me your
benign audition as I pursue this theme.

At last, the Supreme Maker decreed that this creature, to whom He could give nothing wholly his own, should have a
share in the particular endowment of every other creature. Taking man, therefore, this creature of indeterminate image,
He set him in the middle of the world and thus spoke to him:

“We have given you, O Adam, no visage proper to yourself, nor endowment properly your own, in order that whatever
place, whatever form, whatever gifts you may, with premeditation, select, these same you may have and possess through
your own judgement and decision. The nature of all other creatures is defined and restricted within laws which We have
laid down; you, by contrast, impeded by no such restrictions, may, by your own free will, to whose custody We have
assigned you, trace for yourself the lineaments of your own nature. I have placed you at the very center of the world,
so that from that vantage point you may with greater ease glance round about you on all that the world contains. We
have made you a creature neither of heaven nor of earth, neither mortal nor immortal, in order that you may, as the
free and proud shaper of your own being, fashion yourself in the form you may prefer. It will be in your power to
descend to the lower, brutish forms of life; you will be able, through your own decision, to rise again to the superior
orders whose life is divine.”

Oh unsurpassed generosity of God the Father, Oh wondrous and unsurpassable felicity of man, to whom it is granted to
have what he chooses, to be what he wills to be! The brutes, from the moment of their birth, bring with them, as
Lucilius says, “from their mother’s womb” all that they will ever possess. The highest spiritual beings were, from the
very moment of creation, or soon thereafter, fixed in the mode of being which would be theirs through measureless
eternities. But upon man, at the moment of his creation, God bestowed seeds pregnant with all possibilities, the germs
of every form of life. Whichever of these a man shall cultivate, the same will mature and bear fruit in him. If
vegetative, he will become a plant; if sensual, he will become brutish; if rational, he will reveal himself a heavenly
being; if intellectual, he will be an angel and the son of God. And if, dissatisfied with the lot of all creatures, he
should recollect himself into the center of his own unity, he will there become one spirit with God, in the solitary
darkness of the Father, Who is set above all things, himself transcend all creatures.

Who then will not look with awe upon this our chameleon, or who, at least, will look with greater admiration on any
other being? This creature, man, whom Asclepius the Athenian, by reason of this very mutability, this nature capable of
transforming itself, quite rightly said was symbolized in the mysteries by the figure of Proteus. This is the source of
those metamorphoses, or transformations, so celebrated among the Hebrews and among the Pythagoreans; for even the
esoteric theology of the Hebrews at times transforms the holy Enoch into that angel of divinity which is sometimes
called malakh-ha-shekhinah and at other times transforms other personages into divinities of other names; while the
Pythagoreans transform men guilty of crimes into brutes or even, if we are to believe Empedocles, into plants; and
Mohammed, imitating them, was known frequently to say that the man who deserts the divine law becomes a brute. And he
was right; for it is not the bark that makes the tree, but its insensitive and unresponsive nature; nor the hide which
makes the beast of burden, but its brute and sensual soul; nor the orbicular form which makes the heavens, but their
harmonious order. Finally, it is not freedom from a body, but its spiritual intelligence, which makes the angel. If you
see a man dedicated to his stomach, crawling on the ground, you see a plant and not a man; or if you see a man
bedazzled by the empty forms of the imagination, as by the wiles of Calypso, and through their alluring solicitations
made a slave to his own senses, you see a brute and not a man. If, however, you see a philosopher, judging and
distinguishing all things according to the rule of reason, him shall you hold in veneration, for he is a creature of
heaven and not of earth; if, finally, a pure contemplator, unmindful of the body, wholly withdrawn into the inner
chambers of the mind, here indeed is neither a creature of earth nor a heavenly creature, but some higher divinity,
clothed in human flesh.

Who then will not look with wonder upon man, upon man who, not without reason in the sacred Mosaic and Christian
writings, is designated sometimes by the term “all flesh” and sometimes by the term “every creature,” because he molds,
fashions and transforms himself into the likeness of all flesh and assumes the characteristic power of every form of
life? This is why Evantes the Persian in his exposition of the Chaldean theology, writes that man has no inborn and
proper semblance, but many which are extraneous and adventitious: whence the Chaldean saying: “Enosh hu shinnujim
vekammah tebhaoth haj” — “man is a living creature of varied, multiform and ever-changing nature.”

But what is the purpose of all this? That we may understand — since we have been born into this condition of being
what we choose to be — that we ought to be sure above all else that it may never be said against us that, born to a
high position, we failed to appreciate it, but fell instead to the estate of brutes and uncomprehending beasts of
burden; and that the saying of Aspah the Prophet, “You are all Gods and sons of the Most High,” might rather be true;
and finally that we may not, through abuse of the generosity of a most indulgent Father, pervert the free option which
he has given us from a saving to a damning gift. Let a certain saving ambition invade our souls so that, impatient of
mediocrity, we pant after the highest things and (since, if we will, we can) bend all our efforts to their attainment.
Let us disdain things of earth, hold as little worth even the astral orders and, putting behind us all the things of
this world, hasten to that court beyond the world, closest to the most exalted Godhead. There, as the sacred mysteries
tell us, the Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones occupy the first places; but, unable to yield to them, and impatient of any
second place, let us emulate their dignity and glory. And, if we will it, we shall be inferior to them in nothing.

How must we proceed and what must we do to realize this ambition? Let us observe what they do, what kind of life
they lead. For if we lead this kind of life (and we can) we shall attain their same estate. The Seraphim burns with the
fire of charity; from the Cherubim flashes forth the splendor of intelligence; the Thrones stand firm with the firmness
of justice. If, consequently, in the pursuit of the active life we govern inferior things by just criteria, we shall be
established in the firm position of the Thrones. If, freeing ourselves from active care, we devote our time to
contemplation, meditating upon the Creator in His work, and the work in its Creator, we shall be resplendent with the
light of the Cherubim. If we burn with love for the Creator only, his consuming fire will quickly transform us into the
flaming likeness of the Seraphim. Above the Throne, that is, above the just judge, God sits, judge of the ages. Above
the Cherub, that is, the contemplative spirit, He spreads His wings, nourishing him, as it were, with an enveloping
warmth. For the spirit of the Lord moves upon the waters, those waters which are above the heavens and which, according
to Job, praise the Lord in preaurorial hymns. Whoever is a Seraph, that is a lover, is in God and God is in him; even,
it may be said, God and he are one. Great is the power of the Thrones, which we attain by right judgement, highest of
all the sublimity of the Seraphim which we attain by loving.

But how can anyone judge or love what he does not know? Moses loved the God whom he had seen and as judge of his
people he administered what he had previously seen in contemplation on the mountain. Therefore the Cherub is the
intermediary and by his light equally prepares us for the fire of the Seraphim and the judgement of the Thrones. This
is the bond which unites the highest minds, the Palladian order which presides over contemplative philosophy; this is
then the bond which before all else we must emulate, embrace and comprehend, whence we may be rapt to the heights of
love or descend, well instructed and prepared, to the duties of the practical life. But certainly it is worth the
effort, if we are to form our life on the model of the Cherubim, to have familiarly before our eyes both its nature and
its quality as well as the duties and the functions proper to it. Since it is not granted to us, flesh as we are and
knowledgeable only the things of earth, to attain such knowledge by our own efforts, let us have recourse to the
ancient Fathers. They can give us the fullest and most reliable testimony concerning these matters because they had an
almost domestic and connatural knowledge of them.

Let us ask the Apostle Paul, that vessel of election, in what activity he saw the armies of the Cherubim engaged
when he was rapt into the third heaven. He will answer, according to the interpretation of Dionysius, that he saw them
first being purified, then illuminated, and finally made perfect. We, therefore, imitating the life of the Cherubim
here on earth, by refraining the impulses of our passions through moral science, by dissipating the darkness of reason
by dialectic — thus washing away, so to speak, the filth of ignorance and vice — may likewise purify our souls, so that
the passions may never run rampant, nor reason, lacking restraint, range beyond its natural limits. Then may we suffuse
our purified souls with the light of natural philosophy, bringing it to final perfection by the knowledge of divine
things.

Lest we be satisfied to consult only those of our own faith and tradition, let us also have recourse to the
patriarch, Jacob, whose likeness, carved on the throne of glory, shines out before us. This wisest of the Fathers who
though sleeping in the lower world, still has his eyes fixed on the world above, will admonish us. He will admonish,
however, in a figure, for all things appeared in figures to the men of those times: a ladder rises by many rungs from
earth to the height of heaven and at its summit sits the Lord, while over its rungs the contemplative angels move,
alternately ascending and descending. If this is what we, who wish to imitate the angelic life, must do in our turn,
who, I ask, would dare set muddied feet or soiled hands to the ladder of the Lord? It is forbidden, as the mysteries
teach, for the impure to touch what is pure. But what are these hands, these feet, of which we speak? The feet, to be
sure, of the soul: that is, its most despicable portion by which the soul is held fast to earth as a root to the
ground; I mean to say, it alimentary and nutritive faculty where lust ferments and voluptuous softness is fostered. And
why may we not call “the hand” that irascible power of the soul, which is the warrior of the appetitive faculty,
fighting for it and foraging for it in the dust and the sun, seizing for it all things which, sleeping in the shade, it
will devour? Let us bathe in moral philosophy as in a living stream, these hands, that is, the whole sensual part in
which the lusts of the body have their seat and which, as the saying is, holds the soul by the scruff of the neck, let
us be flung back from that ladder as profane and polluted intruders. Even this, however, will not be enough, if we wish
to be the companions of the angels who traverse the ladder of Jacob, unless we are first instructed and rendered able
to advance on that ladder duly, step by step, at no point to stray from it and to complete the alternate ascensions and
descents. When we shall have been so prepared by the art of discourse or of reason, then, inspired by the spirit of the
Cherubim, exercising philosophy through all the rungs of the ladder — that is, of nature — we shall penetrate being
from its center to its surface and from its surface to its center. At one time we shall descend, dismembering with
titanic force the “unity” of the “many,” like the members of Osiris; at another time, we shall ascend, recollecting
those same members, by the power of Phoebus, into their original unity. Finally, in the bosom of the Father, who reigns
above the ladder, we shall find perfection and peace in the felicity of theological knowledge.

Let us also inquire of the just Job, who made his covenant with the God of life even before he entered into life,
what, above all else, the supreme God desires of those tens of thousands of beings which surround Him. He will answer,
without a doubt: peace, just as it is written in the pages of Job: He establishes peace in the high reaches of heaven.
And since the middle order interprets the admonitions of the higher to the lower orders, the words of Job the
theologian may well be interpreted for us by Empedocles the philosopher. Empedocles teaches us that there is in our
souls a dual nature; the one bears us upwards toward the heavenly regions; by the other we are dragged downward toward
regions infernal, through friendship and discord, war and peace; so witness those verses in which he laments that, torn
by strife and discord, like a madman, in flight from the gods, he is driven into the depths of the sea. For it is a
patent thing, O Fathers, that many forces strive within us, in grave, intestine warfare, worse than the civil wars of
states. Equally clear is it that, if we are to overcome this warfare, if we are to establish that peace which must
establish us finally among the exalted of God, philosophy alone can compose and allay that strife. In the first place,
if our man seeks only truce with his enemies, moral philosophy will restrain the unreasoning drives of the protean
brute, the passionate violence and wrath of the lion within us. If, acting on wiser counsel, we should seek to secure
an unbroken peace, moral philosophy will still be at hand to fulfill our desires abundantly; and having slain either
beast, like sacrificed sows, it will establish an inviolable compact of peace between the flesh and the spirit.
Dialectic will compose the disorders of reason torn by anxiety and uncertainty amid the conflicting hordes of words and
captious reasonings. Natural philosophy will reduce the conflict of opinions and the endless debates which from every
side vex, distract and lacerate the disturbed mind. It will compose this conflict, however, in such a manner as to
remind us that nature, as Heraclitus wrote, is generated by war and for this reason is called by Homer, “strife.”
Natural philosophy, therefore, cannot assure us a true and unshakable peace. To bestow such peace is rather the
privilege and office of the queen of the sciences, most holy theology. Natural philosophy will at best point out the
way to theology and even accompany us along the path, while theology, seeing us from afar hastening to draw close to
her, will call out: “Come unto me you who are spent in labor and I will restore you; come to me and I will give you the
peace which the world and nature cannot give.”

Summoned in such consoling tones and invited with such kindness, like earthly Mercuries, we shall fly on winged feet
to embrace that most blessed mother and there enjoy the peace we have longed for: that most holy peace, that
indivisible union, that seamless friendship through which all souls will not only be at one in that one mind which is
above every mind, but, in a manner which passes expression, will really be one, in the most profound depths of being.
This is the friendship which the Pythagoreans say is the purpose of all philosophy. This is the peace which God
established in the high places of the heaven and which the angels, descending to earth, announced to men of good will,
so that men, ascending through this peace to heaven, might become angels. This is the peace which we would wish for our
friends, for our age, for every house into which we enter and for our own soul, that through this peace it may become
the dwelling of God; sop that, too, when the soul, by means of moral philosophy and dialectic shall have purged herself
of her uncleanness, adorned herself with the disciplines of philosophy as with the raiment of a prince’s court and
crowned the pediments of her doors with the garlands of theology, the King of Glory may descend and, coming with the
Father, take up his abode with her. If she prove worthy of so great a guest, she will, through his boundless clemency,
arrayed in the golden vesture of the many sciences as in a nuptial gown, receive him, not as a guest merely, but as a
spouse. And rather than be parted from him, she will prefer to leave her own people and her father’s house. Forgetful
of her very self she will desire to die to herself in order to live in her spouse, in whose eyes the death of his
saints is infinitely precious: I mean that death — if the very plenitude of life can be called death — whose meditation
wise men have always held to be the special study of philosophy.

Let us also cite Moses himself, who is but little removed from the living well-spring of the most holy and ineffable
understanding by whose nectar the angels are inebriated. Let us listen to the venerable judge as he enunciates his laws
to us who live in the desert solitude of the body: “Let those who, still unclean, have need of moral philosophy, dwell
with the peoples outside the tabernacles, under the open sky, until, like the priests of Thessaly, they shall have
cleansed themselves. Those who have already brought order into their lives may be received into the tabernacle, but
still may not touch the sacred vessels. Let them rather first, as zealous levites, in the service of dialectic,
minister to the holy offices of philosophy. When they shall themselves be admitted to those offices, they may, as
priests of philosophy, contemplate the many-colored throne of the higher God, that is the courtly palace of the
star-hung heavens, the heavenly candelabrum aflame with seven lights and elements which are the furry veils of this
tabernacle; so that, finally, having been permitted to enter, through the merit of sublime theology, into the innermost
chambers of the temple, with no veil of images interposing itself, we may enjoy the glory of divinity.” This is what
Moses beyond a doubt commands us, admonishing, urging and exhorting us to prepare ourselves, while we may, by means of
philosophy, a road to future heavenly glory.

In fact, however, the dignity of the liberal arts, which I am about to discuss, and their value to us is attested
not only by the Mosaic and Christian mysteries but also by the theologies of the most ancient times. What else is to be
understood by the stages through which the initiates must pass in the mysteries of the Greeks? These initiates, after
being purified by the arts which we might call expiatory, moral philosophy and dialectic, were granted admission to the
mysteries. What could such admission mean but the interpretation of occult nature by means of philosophy? Only after
they had been prepared in this way did they receive “Epopteia,” that is, the immediate vision of divine things by the
light of theology. Who would not long to be admitted to such mysteries? Who would not desire, putting all human
concerns behind him, holding the goods of fortune in contempt and little minding the goods of the body, thus to become,
while still a denizen of earth, a guest at the table of the gods, and, drunk with the nectar of eternity, receive,
while still a mortal, the gift of immortality? Who would not wish to be so inspired by those Socratic frenzies which
Plato sings in the Phaedrus that, swiftly fleeing this place, that is, this world fixed in evil, by the oars, so to
say, both of feet and wings, he might reach the heavenly Jerusalem by the swiftest course? Let us be driven, O Fathers,
by those Socratic frenzies which lift us to such ecstasy that our intellects and our very selves are united to God. And
we shall be moved by them in this way as previously we have done all that it lies in us to do. If, by moral philosophy,
the power of our passions shall have been restrained by proper controls so that they achieve harmonious accord; and if,
by dialectic, our reason shall have progressed by an ordered advance, then, smitten by the frenzy of the Muses, we
shall hear the heavenly harmony with the inward ears of the spirit. Then the leader of the Muses, Bacchus, revealing to
us in our moments of philosophy, through his mysteries, that is, the visible signs of nature, the invisible things of
God, will make us drunk with the richness of the house of God; and there, if, like Moses, we shall prove entirely
faithful, most sacred theology will supervene to inspire us with redoubled ecstasy. For, raised to the most eminent
height of theology, whence we shall be able to measure with the rod of indivisible eternity all things that are and
that have been; and, grasping the primordial beauty of things, like the seers of Phoebus, we shall become the winged
lovers of theology. And at last, smitten by the ineffable love as by a sting, and, like the Seraphim, filled with the
godhead, we shall be, no longer ourselves, but the very One who made us.

The sacred names of Apollo, to anyone who penetrates their meanings and the mysteries they conceal, clearly show
that God is a philosopher no less than a seer; but since Ammonius has amply treated this theme, there is no occasion
for me to expound it anew. Nevertheless, O Fathers, we cannot fail to recall those three Delphic precepts which are so
very necessary for everyone about to enter the most holy and august temple, not of the false, but of the true Apollo
who illumines every soul as it enters this world. You will see that they exhort us to nothing else but to embrace with
all our powers this tripartite philosophy which we are now discussing. As a matter of fact that aphorism: meden agan,
this is: “Nothing in excess,” duly prescribes a measure and rule for all the virtues through the concept of the “Mean”
of which moral philosophy treats. In like manner, that other aphorism gnothi seauton, that is, “Know thyself,” invites
and exhorts us to the study of the whole nature of which the nature of man is the connecting link and the “mixed
potion”; for he who knows himself knows all things in himself, as Zoroaster first and after him Plato, in the
Alcibiades, wrote. Finally, enlightened by this knowledge, through the aid of natural philosophy, being already close
to God, employing the theological salutation ei, that is “Thou art,” we shall blissfully address the true Apollo on
intimate terms.

Let us also seek the opinion of Pythagoras, that wisest of men, known as a wise man precisely because he never
thought himself worthy of that name. His first precept to us will be: “Never sit on a bushel”; never, that is, through
slothful inaction to lose our power of reason, that faculty by which the mind examines, judges and measures all things;
but rather unremittingly by the rule and exercise of dialectic, to direct it and keep it agile. Next he will warn us of
two things to be avoided at all costs: Neither to make water facing the sun, nor to cut our nails while offering
sacrifice. Only when, by moral philosophy, we shall have evacuated the weakening appetites of our too-abundant
pleasures and pared away, like nail clippings, the sharp points of anger and wrath in our souls, shall we finally begin
to take part in the sacred rites, that is, the mysteries of Bacchus of which we have spoken and to dedicate ourselves
to that contemplation of which the Sun is rightly called the father and the guide. Finally, Pythagoras will command us
to “Feed the cock”; that is, to nourish the divine part of our soul with the knowledge of divine things as with
substantial food and heavenly ambrosia. This is the cock whose visage is the lion, that is, all earthly power, holds in
fear and awe. This is the cock to whom, as we read in Job, all understanding was given. At this cock’s crowing, erring
man returns to his senses. This is the cock which every day, in the morning twilight, with the stars of morning, raises
a Te Deum to heaven. This is the cock which Socrates, at the hour of his death, when he hoped he was about to join the
divinity of his spirit to the divinity of the higher world and when he was already beyond danger of any bodily illness,
said that he owed to Asclepius, that is, the healer of souls.

Let us also pass in review the records of the Chaldeans; there we shall see (if they are to be believed) that the
road to happiness, for mortals, lies through these same arts. The Chaldean interpreters write that it was a saying of
Zoroaster that the soul is a winged creature. When her wings fall from her, she is plunged into the body; but when they
grow strong again, she flies back to the supernal regions. And when his disciples asked him how they might insure that
their souls might be well plumed and hence swift in flight he replied: “Water them well with the waters of life.” And
when they persisted, asking whence they might obtain these waters of life, he answered (as he was wont) in a parable:
“The Paradise of God is bathed and watered by four rivers; from these same sources you may draw the waters which will
save you. The name of the river which flows from the north is Pischon which means, ‘the Right.’ That which flows from
the west is Gichon, that is, ‘Expiation.’ The river flowing from the east is named Chiddekel, that is, ‘Light,’ while
that, finally, from the south is Perath, which may be understood as ‘Compassion.’ ” Consider carefully and with full
attention, O Fathers, what these deliverances of Zoroaster might mean. Obviously, they can only mean that we should, by
moral science, as by western waves, wash the uncleanness from our eyes; that, by dialectic, as by a reading taken by
the northern star, our gaze must be aligned with the right. Then, that we should become accustomed to bear, in the
contemplation of nature, the still feeble light of truth, like the first rays of the rising sun, so that finally we
may, through theological piety and the most holy cult of God, become able, like the eagles of heaven, to bear the
effulgent splendor of the noonday sun. These are, perhaps, those “morning, midday and evening thoughts” which David
first celebrated and on which St. Augustine later expatiated. This is the noonday light which inflames the Seraphim
toward their goal and equally illuminates the Cherubim. This is the promised land toward which our ancient father
Abraham was ever advancing; this the region where, as the teachings of the Cabalists and the Moors tell us, there is no
place for unclean spirits. And if we may be permitted, even in the form of a riddle, to say anything publicly about the
deeper mysteries: since the precipitous fall of man has left his mind in a vertiginous whirl and and since according to
Jeremiah, death has come in through the windows to infect our hearts and bowels with evil, let us call upon Raphael,
the heavenly healer that by moral philosophy and dialectic, as with healing drugs, he may release us. When we shall
have been restored to health, Gabriel, the strength of God, will abide in us. Leading us through the marvels of nature
and pointing out to us everywhere the power and the goodness of God, he will deliver us finally to the care of the High
Priest Michael. He, in turn, will adorn those who have successfully completed their service to philosophy with the
priesthood of theology as with a crown of precious stones.

These are the reasons, most reverend Fathers, which not only led, but even compelled me, to the study of philosophy.
And I should not have undertaken to expound them, except to reply to those who are wont to condemn the study of
philosophy, especially among men of high rank, but also among those of modest station. For the whole study of
philosophy (such is the unhappy plight of our time) is occasion for contempt and contumely, rather than honor and
glory. The deadly and monstrous persuasion has invaded practically all minds, that philosophy ought not to be studied
at all or by very few people; as though it were a thing of little worth to have before our eyes and at our finger-tips,
as matters we have searched out with greatest care, the causes of things, the ways of nature and the plan of the
universe, God’s counsels and the mysteries of heaven and earth, unless by such knowledge on might procure some profit
or favor for oneself. Thus we have reached the point, it is painful to recognize, where the only persons accounted wise
are those who can reduce the pursuit of wisdom to a profitable traffic; and chaste Pallas, who dwells among men only by
the generosity of the gods, is rejected, hooted, whistled at in scorn, with no one to love or befriend her unless, by
prostituting herself, she is able to pay back into the strongbox of her lover the ill-procured price of her deflowered
virginity. I address all these complaints, with the greatest regret and indignation, not against the princes of our
times, but against the philosophers who believe and assert that philosophy should not be pursued because no monetary
value or reward is assigned it, unmindful that by this sign they disqualify themselves as philosophers. Since their
whole life is concentrated on gain and ambition, they never embrace the knowledge of the truth for its own sake. This
much will I say for myself — and on this point I do not blush for praising myself — that I have never philosophized
save for the sake of philosophy, nor have I ever desired or hoped to secure from my studies and my laborious researches
any profit or fruit save cultivation of mind and knowledge of the truth — things I esteem more and more with the
passage of time. I have also been so avid for this knowledge and so enamored of it that I have set aside all private
and public concerns to devote myself completely to contemplation; and from it no calumny of jealous persons, nor any
invective from enemies of wisdom has ever been able to detach me. Philosophy has taught me to rely on my own
convictions rather than on the judgements of others and to concern myself less with whether I am well thought of than
whether what I do or say is evil.

I was not unaware, most revered Fathers, that this present disputation of mine would be as acceptable and as
pleasing to you, who favor all the good arts and who have consented to grace it with your presence, as it would be
irritating and offensive to many others. I am also aware that there is no dearth of those who have condemned my
undertaking before this and continue to do so on a number of grounds. But this has always been the case: works which
are well-intentioned and sincerely directed to virtue have always had no fewer — not to say more — detractors than
those undertaken for questionable motives and for devious ends. Some persons disapprove the present type of disputation
in general and this method of disputing in public about learned matters; they assert that they serve only the
exhibition of talent and the display of opinion, rather than the increase of learning. Others do not disapprove this
type of exercise, but resent the fact that at my age, a mere twenty-four years, I have dared to propose a disputation
concerning the most subtle mysteries of Christian theology, the most debated points of philosophy and unfamiliar
branches of learning; and that I have done so here, in this most renowned of cities, before a large assembly of very
learned men, in the presence of the Apostolic Senate. Still others have ceded my right so to dispute, but have not
conceded that I might dispute nine hundred theses, asserting that such a project is superfluous, over-ambitious and
beyond my powers. I should have acceded to these objections willingly and immediately, if the philosophy which I
profess had so counseled me. Nor should I now undertake to reply to them, as my philosophy urges me to do, if I
believed that this disputation between us were undertaken for purposes of mere altercation and litigation. Therefore,
let all intention of denigration and exasperation be purged from our minds and with it that malice which, as Plato
writes, is never present in the angelic choirs. Let us amicably decide whether it be admissible for me to proceed with
my disputation and whether I should venture so large a number of questions.

I shall not, in the first place, have much to say against those who disapprove this type of public disputation. It
is a crime, — if it be a crime — which I share with all you, most excellent doctors, who have engaged in such exercises
on many occasions to the enhancement of your reputations, as well as with Plato and Aristotle and all the most esteemed
philosophers of every age. These philosophers of the past all thought that nothing could profit them more in their
search for wisdom than frequent participation in public disputation. Just as the powers of the body are made stronger
through gymnastic, the powers of the mind grow in strength and vigor in this arena of learning. I am inclined to
believe that the poets, when they sang of the arms of Pallas and the Hebrews, when they called the barzel, that is, the
sword, the symbol of men of wisdom, could have meant nothing by these symbols but this type of contest, at once so
necessary and so honorable for the acquisition of knowledge. This may also be the reason why the Chaldeans, at the
birth of a man destined to be a philosopher, described a horoscope in which Mars confronted Mercury from three distinct
angles. This is as much as to say that should these assemblies and these contests be abandoned, all philosophy would
become sluggish and dormant.

It is more difficult for me, however, to find a line of defense against those who tell me that I am unequal to the
undertaking. If I say that I am equal to it, I shall appear to entertain an immodestly high opinion of myself. If I
admit that I am unequal to it, while persisting in it, I shall certainly risk being called temerarious and imprudent.
You see the difficulties into which I have fallen, the position in which I am placed. I cannot, without censure,
promise something about myself, nor, without equal censure, fail in what I promise. Perhaps I can invoke that saying of
Job: “The spirit is in all men” or take consolation in what was said to Timothy: “Let no man despise your youth.” But
to speak from my own conscience, I might say with greater truth that there is nothing singular about me. I admit that I
am devoted to study and eager in the pursuit of the good arts. Nevertheless, I do not assume nor arrogate to myself the
title learned. If, consequently, I have taken such a great burden on my shoulders, it is not because I am ignorant of
my own weaknesses. Rather, it is because I understand that in this kind of learned contest the real victory lies in
being vanquished. Even the weakest, consequently, ought not to shun them, but should seek them out, as well they may.
For the one who is bested receives from his conqueror, not an injury but a benefit; he returns to his house richer than
he left, that is, more learned and better armed for future contests. Inspired by such hope, though myself but a weak
soldier, I have not been afraid to enter so dangerous a contest even against the very strongest and vigorous opponents.
Whether, in doing so, I have acted foolishly or not might better be judged from the outcome of the contest than from my
age.

I must, in the third place, answer those who are scandalized by the large number of propositions and the variety of
topics I have proposed for disputation, as though the burden, however great it may be, rested on their shoulders and
not, as it does, on mine. Surely it is unbecoming and captious to want to set limits to another’s efforts and, as
Cicero says, to desire mediocrity in those things in which the rule should be: the more the better. In undertaking so
great a venture only one alternative confronted me: success or failure. If I should succeed, I do not see how it would
be more praiseworthy to succeed in defending ten theses than in defending nine hundred. If I should fail, those who
hate me will have grounds for disparagement, while those who love me will have an occasion to excuse me. In so large
and important an undertaking it would seem that a young man who fails through weakness of talent or want of learning
deserves indulgence rather than censure. For as the poet says,

if powers fail, there shall be praise for daring; and in great undertaking, to have willed is enough.

In our own day, many scholars, imitating Gorgias of Leontini, have been accustomed to dispute, not nine hundred
questions merely, but the whole range of questions concerning all the arts and have been praised for it. Why should not
I, then, without incurring criticism, be permitted to discuss a large number of questions indeed, but questions which
are clear and determined in their scope? They reply, this is superfluous and ambitious. I protest that, in my case, no
superfluity is involved, but that all is necessary. If they consider the method of my philosophy they will feel
compelled, even against their inclinations, to recognize this necessity. All those who attach themselves to one or
another of the philosophers, to Thomas, for instance or Scotus, who at present enjoy the widest following, can indeed
test their doctrine in a discussion of a few questions. By contrast, I have so trained myself that, committed to the
teachings of no one man, I have ranged through all the masters of philosophy, examined all their works, become
acquainted with all schools. As a consequence, I have had to introduce all of them into the discussion lest, defending
a doctrine peculiar to one, I might seem committed to it and thus to deprecate the rest. While a few of the theses
proposed concern individual philosophers, it was inevitable that a great number should concern all of them together.
Nor should anyone condemn me on the grounds that “wherever the storm blows me, there I remain as a guest.” For it was a
rule among the ancients, in the case of all writers, never to leave unread any commentaries which might be available.
Aristotle observed this rule so carefully that Plato called him: auagnooies, that is, “the reader.” It is certainly a
mark of excessive narrowness of mind to enclose oneself within one Porch or Academy; nor can anyone reasonably attach
himself to one school or philosopher, unless he has previously become familiar with them all. In addition, there is in
each school some distinctive characteristic which it does not share with any other.

To begin with the men of our own faith to whom philosophy came last, there is in Duns Scotus both vigor and
distinction, in Thomas solidity and sense of balance, in Egidius, lucidity and precision, in Francis, depth and
acuteness, in Albertus [Magnus] a sense of ultimate issues, all-embracing and grand, in Henry, as it has seemed to me,
always an element of sublimity which inspires reverence. Among the Arabians, there is in AverroÃ«s something solid and
unshaken, in Avempace, as in Al–Farabi, something serious and deeply meditated; in Avicenna, something divine and
platonic. Among the Greeks philosophy was always brilliant and, among the earliest, even chaste: in Simplicus it is
rich and abundant, in Themistius elegant and compendious, in Alexander, learned and self-consistent, in Theophrastus,
worked out with great reflection, in Ammonius, smooth and pleasing. If you turn to the Platonists, to mention but a
few, you will, in Porphyry, be delighted by the wealth of matter and by his preoccupation with many aspects of
religion; in Iamblichus, you will be awed by his knowledge of occult philosophy and the mysteries of the barbarian
peoples; in Plotinus, you will find it impossible to single out one thing for admiration, because he is admirable under
every aspect. Platonists themselves, sweating over his pages, understand him only with the greatest difficulty when, in
his oblique style, he teaches divinely about divine things and far more than humanly about things human. I shall pass
over the more recent figures, Proclus, and those others who derive from him, Damacius, Olympiodorus and many more in
whom that to theion, that is, that divine something which is the special mark of the Platonists, always shines out.

It should be added that any school which attacks the more established truths and by clever slander ridicules the
valid arguments of reason confirms, rather than weakens, the truth itself, which, like embers, is fanned to life,
rather than extinguished by stirring. These considerations have motivated me in my determination to bring to men’s
attention the opinions of all schools rather than the doctrine of some one or other (as some might have preferred), for
it seems to me that by the confrontation of many schools and the discussion of many philosophical systems that
“effulgence of truth” of which Plato writes in his letters might illuminate our minds more clearly, like the sun rising
from the sea. What should have been our plight had only the philosophical thought of the Latin authors, that is,
Albert, Thomas, Scotus, Egidius, Francis and Henry, been discussed, while that of the Greeks and the Arabs was passed
over, since all the thought of the barbarian nations was inherited by the Greeks and from the Greeks came down to us?
For this reason, our thinkers have always been satisfied, in the field of philosophy, to rest on the discoveries of
foreigners and simply to perfect the work of others. What profit would have dervied from discussing natural philosophy
with the Peripatetics, if the Academy of the Platonists had not also participated in the exchange, for the doctrine of
the latter, even when it touched on divine matters, has always (as St. Augustine bears witness) been esteemed the most
elevated of all philosophies? And this in turn has been the reason why I have, for the first time after many centuries
of neglect (and there is nothing invidious in my saying so) brought it forth again for public examination and
discussion. And what would it have profited us if, having discussed the opinions of innumerable others, like asymboli,
at the banquet of wise men, we should contribute nothing of our own, nothing conceived and elaborated in our own mind?
Indeed, it is the characteristic of the impotent (as Seneca writes) to have their knowledge all written down in their
note-books, as though the discoveries of those who preceded us had closed the path to our own efforts, as though the
power of nature had become effete in us and could bring forth nothing which, if it could not demonstrate the truth,
might at least point to it from afar. The farmer hates sterility in his field and the husband deplores it in his wife;
even more then must the divine mind hate the sterile mind with which it is joined and associated, because it hopes from
that source to have offspring of such a high nature.

For these reasons, I have not been content to repeat well-worn doctrines, but have proposed for disputation many
points of the early theology of Hermes Trismegistus, many theses drawn from the teachings of the Chaldeans and the
Pythagoreans, from the occult mysteries of the Hebrews and, finally, a considerable number of propositions concerning
both nature and God which we ourselves have discovered and worked out. In the first place, we have proposed a harmony
between Plato and Aristotle, such as many before this time indeed believed to exist but which no one has satisfactorily
established. Boethius, among Latin writers, promised to compose such a harmony, but he never carried his proposal to
completion. St. Augustine also writes, in his Contra Academicos, that many others tried to prove the same thing, that
is, that the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle were identical, and by the most subtle arguments. For example, John
the Grammarian held that Aristotle differed from Plato only for those who did not grasp Plato’s thought; but he left it
to posterity to prove it. We have, in addition, adduced a great number of passages in which Scotus and Thomas, and
others in which AverroÃ«s and Avicenna, have heretofore been thought to disagree, but which I assert are in harmony
with one another.

In the second place, along with my own reflections on and developments of both the Aristotelian and the Platonic
philosophies, I have adduced seventy-two theses in physics and metaphysics. If I am not mistaken (and this will become
clearer in the course of the proposed disputation) anyone subscribing to these theses will be able to resolve any
question proposed to him in natural philosophy or theology on a principle quite other than that taught us in the
philosophy which is at present to be learned in the schools and is taught by the masters of the present generation. Nor
ought anyone to be surprised, that in my early years, at a tender age at which I should hardly be permitted to read the
writings of others (as some have insinuated) I should wish to propose a new philosophy. They ought rather to praise
this new philosophy, if it is well defended, or reject it, if it is refuted. Finally, since it will be their task to
judge my discoveries and my scholarship, they ought to look to the merit or demerit of these and not to the age of
their author.

I have, in addition, introduced a new method of philosophizing on the basis of numbers. This method is, in fact,
very old, for it was cultivated by the ancient theologians, by Pythagoras, in the first place, but also by Aglaophamos,
Philolaus and Plato, as well as by the earliest Platonists; however, like other illustrious achievements of the past,
it has through lack of interest on the part of succeeding generations, fallen into such desuetude, that hardly any
vestiges of it are to be found. Plato writes in Epinomis that among all the liberal arts and contemplative sciences,
the science of number is supreme and most divine. And in another place, asking why man is the wisest of animals, he
replies, because he knows how to count. Similarly, Aristotle, in his Problems repeats this opinion. Abumasar writes
that it was a favorite saying of Avenzoar of Babylon that the man who knows how to count, knows everything else as
well. These opinions are certainly devoid of any truth if by the art of number they intend that art in which today
merchants excel all other men; Plato adds his testimony to this view, admonishing us emphatically not to confuse this
divine arithmetic with the arithmetic of the merchants. When, consequently, after long nights of study I seemed to
myself to have thoroughly penetrated this Arithmetic, which is thus so highly extolled, I promised myself that in order
to test the matter, I would try to solve by means of this method of number seventy-four questions which are considered,
by common consent, among the most important in physics and divinity.

I have also proposed certain theses concerning magic, in which I have indicated that magic has two forms. One
consists wholly in the operations and powers of demons, and consequently this appears to me, as God is my witness, an
execrable and monstrous thing. The other proves, when thoroughly investigated, to be nothing else but the highest
realization of natural philosophy. The Greeks noted both these forms. However, because they considered the first form
wholly undeserving the name magic they called it goeteia, reserving the term mageia, to the second, and understanding
by it the highest and most perfect wisdom. The term “magus” in the Persian tongue, according to Porphyry, means the
same as “interpreter” and “worshipper of the divine” in our language. Moreover, Fathers, the disparity and
dissimilarity between these arts is the greatest that can be imagined. Not the Christian religion alone, but all legal
codes and every well-governed commonwealth execrates and condemns the first; the second, by contrast, is approved and
embraced by all wise men and by all peoples solicitous of heavenly and divine things. The first is the most deceitful
of arts; the second, a higher and holier philosophy. The former is vain and disappointing; the later, firm, solid and
satisfying. The practitioner of the first always tries to conceal his addiction, because it always rebounds to shame
and reproach, while the cultivation of the second, both in antiquity and at almost all periods, has been the source of
the highest renown and glory in the field of learning. No philosopher of any worth, eager in pursuit of the good arts,
was ever a student of the former, but to learn the latter, Pythagoras, Empedocles, Plato and Democritus crossed the
seas. Returning to their homes, they, in turn, taught it to others and considered it a treasure to be closely guarded.
The former, since it is supported by no true arguments, is defended by no writers of reputation; the latter, honored,
as it were, in its illustrious progenitors, counts two principal authors: Zamolxis, who was imitated by Abaris the
Hyperborean, and Zoroaster; not, indeed, the Zoroaster who may immediately come to your minds, but that other
Zoroaster, the son of Oromasius. If we should ask Plato the nature of each of these forms of magic, he will respond in
the Alcibiades that the magic of Zoroaster is nothing else than that science of divine things in which the kings of the
Persians had their sons educated to that they might learn to rule their commonwealth on the pattern of the commonwealth
of the universe. In the Charmides he will answer that the magic of Zamolxis is the medicine of the soul, because it
brings temperance to the soul as medicine brings health to the body. Later Charondas, Damigeron, Apollonius, Osthanes
and Dardanus continued in their footsteps, as did Homer, of whom we shall sometime prove, in a “poetic theology” we
propose to write, that he concealed this doctrine, symbolically, in the wanderings of his Ulysses, just as he did all
other learned doctrines. They were also followed by Eudoxus and Hermippus, as well as by practically all those who
studied the Pythagorean and Platonic mysteries. Of later philosophers, I find that three had ferreted it out: the
Arabian, Al–Kindi, Roger Bacon, and William of Paris. Plotinus also gives signs that he was aware of it in the passage
in which he shows that the magician is the minister of nature and not merely its artful imitator. This very wise man
approves and maintains this magic, while so abhorring that other that once, when he was invited to to take part in
rites of evil spirits, he said that they ought rather to come to him, than he to go to them; and he spoke well. Just as
that first form of magic makes man a slave and pawn of evil powers, the latter makes him their lord and master. That
first form of magic cannot justify any claim to being either an art or a science while the latter, filled as it is with
mysteries, embraces the most profound contemplation of the deepest secrets of things and finally the knowledge of the
whole of nature. This beneficent magic, in calling forth, as it were, from their hiding places into the light the
powers which the largess of God has sown and planted in the world, does not itself work miracles, so much as sedulously
serve nature as she works her wonders. Scrutinizing, with greater penetration, that harmony of the universe which the
Greeks with greater aptness of terms called sympatheia and grasping the mutual affinity of things, she applies to each
thing those inducements (called the iugges of the magicians), most suited to its nature. Thus it draws forth into
public notice the miracles which lie hidden in the recesses of the world, in the womb of nature, in the storehouses and
secret vaults of God, as though she herself were their artificer. As the farmer weds his elms to the vines, so the
“magus” unites earth to heaven, that is, the lower orders to the endowments and powers of the higher. Hence it is that
this latter magic appears the more divine and salutary, as the former presents a monstrous and destructive visage. But
the deepest reason for the difference is the fact that that first magic, delivering man over to the enemies of God,
alienates him from God, while the second, beneficent magic, excites in him an admiration for the works of God which
flowers naturally into charity, faith and hope. For nothing so surely impels us to the worship of God than the
assiduous contemplation of His miracles and when, by means of this natural magic, we shall have examined these wonders
more deeply, we shall more ardently be moved to love and worship Him in his works, until finally we shall be compelled
to burst into song: “The heavens, all of the earth, is filled with the majesty of your glory.” But enough about magic.
I have been led to say even this much because I know that there are many persons who condemn and hate it, because they
do not understand it, just as dogs always bay at strangers.

I come now to those matters which I have drawn from the ancient mysteries of the Hebrews and here adduce in
confirmation of the inviolable Catholic faith. Lest these matters be thought, by those to whom they are unfamiliar,
bubbles of the imagination and tales of charlatans, I want everyone to understand what they are and what their true
character is; whence they are drawn and who are the illustrious writers who testifying to them; how mysterious they
are, and divine and necessary to men of our faith for the propagation of our religion in the face of the persistent
calumnies of the Hebrews. Not famous Hebrew teachers alone, but, from among those of our own persuasion, Esdras, Hilary
and Origen all write that Moses, in addition to the law of the five books which he handed down to posterity, when on
the mount, received from God a more secret and true explanation of the law. They also say that God commanded Moses to
make the law known to the people, but not to write down its interpretation or to divulge it, but to communicate it only
to Jesu Nave who, in turn, was to reveal it to succeeding high priests under a strict obligation of silence. It was
enough to indicate, through simple historical narrative, the power of God, his wrath against the unjust, his mercy
toward the good, his justice toward all and to educate the people, by divine and salutary commands, to live well and
blessedly and to worship in the true religion. Openly to reveal to the people the hidden mysteries and the secret
intentions of the highest divinity, which lay concealed under the hard shell of the law and the rough vesture of
language, what else could this be but to throw holy things to dogs and to strew gems among swine? The decision,
consequently, to keep such things hidden from the vulgar and to communicate them only to the initiate, among whom
alone, as Paul says, wisdom speaks, was not a counsel of human prudence but a divine command. And the philosophers of
antiquity scrupulously observed this caution. Pythagoras wrote nothing but a few trifles which he confided to his
daughter Dama, on his deathbed. The Sphinxes, which are carved on the temples of the Egyptians, warned that the mystic
doctrines must be kept inviolate from the profane multitude by means of riddles. Plato, writing certain things to
Dionysius concerning the highest substances, explained that he had to write in riddles “lest the letter fall into other
hands and others come to know the things I have intended for you.” Aristotle used to say that the books of the
Metaphysics in which he treats of divine matters were both published and unpublished. Is there any need for further
instances? Origen asserts that Jesus Christ, the Teacher of Life, revealed many things to His disciples which they in
turn were unwilling to commit to writing lest they become the common possession of the crowd. Dionysius the Areopagite
gives powerful confirmation to this assertion when he writes that the more secret mysteries were transmitted by the
founders of our religion ek nou eis vouv dia mesov logov, that is, from mind to mind, without commitment to writing,
through the medium of of the spoken word alone. Because the true interpretation of the law given to Moses was, by God’s
command, revealed in almost precisely this way, it was called “Cabala,” which in Hebrew means the same as our word
“reception.” The precise point is, of course, that the doctrine was received by one man from another not through
written documents but, as a hereditary right, through a regular succession of revelations.

After Cyrus had delivered the Hebrews from the Babylonian captivity, and the Temple had been restored under
Zorobabel, the Hebrews bethought themselves of restoring the Law. Esdras, who was head of the church [sic!] at the
time, amended the book of Moses. He readily realized, moreover, that because of the exiles, the massacres, the flights
and the captivity of the people of Israel, the practice established by the ancients of handing down the doctrines by
word of mouth could not be maintained. Unless they were committed to writing, the heavenly teachings divinely handed
down must inevitably perish, for the memory of them would not long endure. He decided, consequently, that all of the
wise men still alive should be convened and that each should communicate to the convention all that he remembered about
the mysteries of the Law. Their communications were then to be collected by scribes into seventy volumes (approximately
the same number as there were members of the Sanhedrin). So that you need not accept my testimony alone, O Fathers,
hear Esdras himself speaking: “After forty days had passed, the All–Highest spoke and said: The first things which you
wrote publish openly so that the worthy and unworthy alike may read; but the last seventy books conserve so that you
may hand them on to the wise men among your people, for in these reside the spring of understanding, the fountain of
wisdom and the river of knowledge. And I did these things.” These are the very words of Esdras. These are the books of
cabalistic wisdom. In these books, as Esdras unmistakably states, resides the springs of understanding, that is, the
ineffable theology of the supersubstantial deity; the fountain of wisdom, that is, the precise metaphysical doctrine
concerning intelligible and angelic forms; and the stream of wisdom, that is, the best established philosophy
concerning nature. Pope Sixtus the Fourth, the immediate predecessor of our present pope, Innocent the Eight, under
whose happy reign we are living, took all possible measures to ensure that these books would be translated into Latin
for the public benefit of our faith and at the time of his death, three of them had already appeared. The Hebrews hold
these same books in such reverence that no one under forty years of age is permitted even to touch them. I acquired
these books at considerable expense and, reading them from beginning to end with the greatest attention and with
unrelenting toil, I discovered in them (as God is my witness) not so much the Mosaic as the Christian religion. There
was to be found the mystery of the Trinity, the Incarnation of the Word, the divinity of the Messiah; there one might
also read of original sin, of its expiation by the Christ, of the heavenly Jerusalem, of the fall of the demons, of the
orders of the angels, of the pains of purgatory and of hell. There I read the same things which we read every day in
the pages of Paul and of Dionysius, Jerome and Augustine. In philosophical matters, it were as though one were
listening to Pythagoras and Plato, whose doctrines bear so close an affinity to the Christian faith that our Augustine
offered endless thanks to God that the books of the Platonists had fallen into his hands. In a word, there is no point
of controversy between the Hebrews and ourselves on which the Hebrews cannot be confuted and convinced out the
cabalistic writings, so that no corner is left for them to hide in. On this point I can cite a witness of the very
greatest authority, the most learned Antonius Chronicus; on the occasion of a banquet in his house, at which I was also
present, with his own ears he heard the Hebrew, Dactylus, a profound scholar of this lore, come round completely to the
Christian doctrine of the Trinity.

To return, however, to our review of the chief points of my disputation: I have also adduced my conception of the
manner in which the poems of Orpheus and Zoroaster ought to be interpreted. Orpheus is read by the Greeks in a text
which is practically complete; Zoroaster is known to them in a corrupt text, while in Chaldea he is read in a form more
nearly complete. Both are considered as the authors and fathers of ancient wisdom. I shall say nothing about Zoroaster
who is mentioned so frequently by the Platonists and always with the greatest respect. Of Pythagoras, however,
Iamblicus the Chaldean writes that he took the Orphic theology as the model on which he shaped and formed his own
philosophy. For this precise reason the sayings of Pythagoras are called sacred, because, and to the degree that, they
derive from the Orphic teachings. For from this source that occult doctrine of numbers and everything else that was
great and sublime in Greek philosophy flowed as from its primitive source. Orpheus, however (and this was the case with
all the ancient theologians) so wove the mysteries of his doctrines into the fabric of myths and so wrapped them about
in veils of poetry, that one reading his hymns might well believe that there was nothing in them but fables and the
veriest commonplaces. I have said this so that it might be known what labor was mine, what difficulty was involved, in
drawing out the secret meanings of the occult philosophy from the deliberate tangles of riddles and the recesses of
fable in which they were hidden; difficulty made all the greater by the fact that in a matter so weighty, abstruse and
unexplored, I could count on no help from the work and efforts of other interpreters. And still like dogs they have
come barking after me, saying that I have brought together an accumulation of trifles in order to make a great display
by their sheer number. As though all did not concern ambiguous questions, subjects of sharpest controversy, over which
the most important schools confront each other like gladiators. As though I had not brought to light many things quite
unknown and unsuspected by these very men who now carp at me while styling themselves the leaders of philosophy. As a
matter of fact, I am so completely free of the fault they attribute to me that I have tried to confine the discussion
to fewer points than I might have raised. Had I wished, (as others are wont) to divide these questions into their
constituent parts, and to dismember them, their number might well have increased to a point past counting. To say
nothing of other matters, who is unaware that one of these nine hundred theses, that, namely, concerning the
reconciliation of the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle might have been developed, without arousing any suspicion
that I was affecting mere number, into six hundred or more by enumerating in due order those points on which others
think that these philosophies differ and I, that they agree? For a certainty I shall speak out (though in a manner
which is neither modest in itself nor conformable to my character), I shall speak out because those who envy me and
detract me, force me to speak out. I have wanted to make clear in disputation, not only that I know a great many
things, but also that I know a great many things which others do not know.

And now, reverend Fathers, in order that this claim may be vindicated by the fact, and in order that my address may
no longer delay the satisfaction of your desire — for I see, reverend doctors, with the greatest pleasure that you are
girded and ready for the contest — let us now, with the prayer that the outcome may be fortunate and favorable, as to
the sound of trumpets, join battle.

This web edition published by:

eBooks@Adelaide
The University of Adelaide Library
University of Adelaide
South Australia 5005